Christmas

Before we actually launch into the year 2014 (and by the way, Calendar, I just barely adjusted to writing "2013" on things, so thanks a lot for that), I wanted to celebrate one more time what a wonderful, sweet Christmas season we had. It's been perhaps my favorite ever. Not only did I have a precious newborn to hold and enjoy these past two weeks, but on top of that it was the calmest Christmas I've had in years, thanks to all the insane nesting I did to prepare for a baby (including having all my shopping done before December, all my wrapping done by the end of the first week in December, and all my baking finished by Oliver's birth on the 16th). I should make an early deadline for myself every year so that in the days leading up to Christmas I can sit and appreciate the true meaning of the holiday with my children all around and the hustle and bustle behind us!

cookies by the tree, just because

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were very, very special. In fact, this year's Christmas morning was one even the smallest of my children slowly drank in, not rushing through their stockings or gifts, but joyfully, patiently, and thankfully savoring each moment. I would bottle it all up if I could, but the limited pictures (my camera died early on) in my possession will have to suffice.

so magical...

Thanks to our traditional Christmas Eve dinner menu being a simple one, we were able to host the meal like usual despite me being just a short 8 days postpartum. Setting the tables, lighting candles, and having family in my home is such a big part of the holiday to me; I was thankful to be able to continue our tradition as usual, in large part due to Daniel and the kids helping me with every aspect of the preparations.

 we had my grandparents, parents, 7 of my siblings and their spouses/children, and Josh here for the meal: 27 at 3 tables-- 31 including babies!

 I received TWO of these precious nativity sets, made by Jackson and Aubrey at their Friday School art class and gifted to me that day so that I could decorate tables with them

Lest you think it was all candlelight and pleasantness, I will include our attempt at a photo before heading out to our annual Candlelight Service following the meal. Elliot was less than thrilled.

the rest of them did okay, right???

He did better after the service when Daniel was able to hold him. What can I say? He loves us.

  first family photo with Oliver!

Following the Candlelight Service at church, we eat cookies (what else?!), the children exchange gifts with one another, and we read the Christmas story again. At the service, we get to hear the story as found in Luke 2 so at home Daniel chooses a different rendition each year from among our ever-growing Christmas book selection, which I love. I find myself considering all the events of that momentous night differently when looked at through the lens and words of each varying author.

We tuck the children in bed and then set about the fun task of tucking any "unwrappable" gifts under/around the tree and stuffing stockings. It took longer than usual this year since we were taking turns holding Oliver, who was pretty intent on tanking up for what ended up being his best night of sleep so far, but we got ourselves into bed before the clock struck 12.

And in the morning...
 

the tree...

 the stockings...

overjoyed babies, every one of them...

Thanks to Danica, Christmas breakfast was taken care of for me. Cinnamon buns and clementines and cold milk or hot coffee, depending on one's preference.

Then presents!

 a fun stack of gifts all tied together!

diving in!

After unwrapping the gifts, enjoying the contents for a while, and then readying ourselves, we headed over to my parents' to open a few more gifts with the relatives and to share Christmas dinner.

how many more years before my parents' large family room can no longer contain us???

the boys' Christmas dinner table

I am so blessed. By my family. By my children. By my husband.

But most of all, this celebration and the makings of it are all for one history-altering and life-changing reason: Jesus came to save. I am in awe of His plan, in awe of how He used and uses people, in awe of how simple and wonderful and unfathomable and near and good the Gospel is.

I am in awe that each year I get to make what feels like such a big deal to me and yet is barely enough to acknowledge the bigness of what He did so many years ago and He is blessed and honored by it!

Oliver's birth, part VI

The real excitement of Oliver's birth actually took place after.

Like I said, immediately following delivery, there was calm. Nobody was in a hurry. I didn't feel the normal frenzy about how slow my placenta was to deliver; the doctor just took one minute at a time. The pediatric nurse was in no rush to weigh and measure Oliver. It was so nice.

Eventually the placenta delivered, Oliver was evaluated, and they gave me a bolus of pitocin, which is something I've received post-delivery at every birth since Jackson's, when I hemorrhaged fairly significantly. I was checked and declared tear-free, other than a minor abrasion that must be quite miniscule because it hasn't bothered me at all. Whew. That always makes recovery so much better!

Daniel went out to get food for me. I felt badly about the fact that he was going out in the middle of the night on one of the coldest nights I can remember (-24* F), but I guess he probably would have done anything for me right about then. And I am always ravenous after giving birth, so the idea of waiting until morning for food just wasn't going to cut it.

We all ate a little and then Mom and Camilla headed out. The nurse told me they were ready to move me to postpartum whenever I was up for it. I told her I wanted to use the bathroom and then I'd like to get settled for the night. It was probably close to 1am.

Well, using the bathroom got exciting when I passed a clot at least the size of a softball (I honestly wasn't sure at first whether or not there was a second placenta, it was so big). That was weird, but I would just head back to bed, I figured, and be fine. Fortunately, the nurse was right there, because when I stood up and she asked, "Are you okay?" all I could say was, "Yes... um... no... um... no, I'm not okay."

The next thing I knew, I was staring up at the bathroom ceiling, Daniel's voice was behind me, there were about 4 nurses faces all around, and I was getting my first-ever whiffs of smelling salts (awful). At first I wasn't sure where I was. For some reason I thought I was at church?! It took me a minute to remember: oh yeah... I just had a baby... it's a boy... I'm at the hospital... did I faint???

Fainting after passing that much of a blood clot when I'm already so anemic wasn't too shocking, so after a call to the doctor and getting me re-settled, they decided I was okay.

Head down to postpartum. Get settled. Have to use the bathroom again, not thinking it will be a big deal. The nurse walks me in and I'm fine; she steps out and continues settling the room for me. I go to stand and I feel myself getting woozy again. Call for Daniel because I haven't learned the new nurse's name.

Next thing I know, more smelling salts and more nurses crowding around and Daniel holding me.

After that, I was hooked back up to an IV so they could pump me with fluids in an attempt to replace the blood volume I'd lost. I also wasn't allowed to get up to use the bathroom by myself for about 8 hours, but I wasn't about to. Fainting once had been weird. Fainting a second time in such close succession felt a little scary, to be honest!

Fortunately, Oliver was being a dream through the entire thing. And by 10am (about 7 hours after I finally got really settled!), I was feeling much more like my normal self. My hemoglobin levels were down to 6.5 (normal range is 12-15), but I've been down this road before and was fairly confident that as long as I could keep my blood loss to a minimum from that point on, I'd be fine.

Dr. Barrett stopped in and said I was looking much better, but they'd re-draw my blood the next morning. Which is when I must have been feeling very bold, seeing as I'd not exactly had a stellar night, because I said-- somewhat hesitantly-- "I was really hoping to go home today. I mean, I won't go if I'm feeling really weak. But I'd like the option to leave later today if I'm feeling okay."

He tipped his head to the side and said, "Well, you look good now. And you've done this before. I don't see any reason to keep you. We'll just have to get the pediatrician to clear Oliver and then it's fine with me if you leave, as long as you're really feeling okay."

I'm not sure if my mouth was hanging open, but it must have been. I've never had a doctor be so accommodating!

The pediatrician did end up approving an early discharge (which one nurse told us is almost unheard of for this particular doctor) and so, after giving myself more time and lots more fluid, enjoying a visit from Louissa, indulging in a Chipotle burrito, and some paperwork confusion (it wouldn't be a true hospital stay without at least a few delays!), we left Tuesday evening a few hours before Oliver was 24 hours old.

We arrived home to a houseful of beautiful babies all snuggled in their beds, thanks to Aunt Liana's tender care in our absence.

(I have the best sisters. I just do.)

And then this angel slept for 9 hours, with one good feeding half-way through. I woke the next morning in my own bed, surrounded by my children, and feeling blessed beyond measure. This delivery did not start the way I had planned, but God had showed Himself faithful to me.

Again.

I told a friend a few days earlier that as much as I have struggled with wondering "why?"
at times (why Aubrey's heart? why the c-section? why no easy VBACs where I live? why going post-dates and needing an induction?), mostly I know that God has always provided what I need at the time I need it: small things, big things, things that I struggle to trust Him for, and many things that I take for granted, if I'm truly honest. May I let Him use my life to testify of His tender care in all things!

Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good;
Blessed is the man who trusts in Him!

 Oh, fear the Lord, you His saints!
There is no want to those who fear Him.

The young lions lack and suffer hunger;
But those who seek the Lord shall not lack any good thing.

Oliver's birth, part V

[Thanks for bearing with me as I take so long getting all this down. I would like to be able to collect my thoughts enough to write it all more quickly/concisely, but this is the best I'm able to manage right now-- and I'm choosing "fresh" over "polished"!]


I really had no sense of time from the moment they ruptured my membranes until after Oliver's birth. I had to ask the nurse and mom and Camilla to fill me in after the fact. If you'd asked me then, I would have told you it all took forever.

The truth was that it didn't.

Time is strange in hospitals, and time is strange when in labor.

I had the best support, you know.

-- The nurse who took over at 7pm, right around the time labor really began, was wonderful. She was personal and competent and deferential. She also won my heart by coming up with creative ways to keep the nurse manager from fretting about how often we were losing the baby's heart rate on the monitor, due to position.

-- My mom: Labor Extraordinaire.

-- Camilla, who without ever having given birth herself, knows exactly what to do and when to do it. She's amazing.

-- And I had Daniel, who even the night before when I had fretted about what was impending, said to me, "You know I'm in this with you, right? Whatever happens, I'm with you."

They tell me it was probably around 11:10pm that I was cleaned up from the "traumatic" round of contractions surrounding the bathroom run/IV "explosion" and re-settled on the bed. Maybe 25 minutes or so after Dr. Barrett had pronounced me the disheartening mere 6cm dilated.

I do know that there were very few, if any, contractions from that point on that weren't morphing into an urge to bear down. The contraction would begin normally, turn into a version of pushing that I wasn't entirely familiar with, and then go in and out like that 2 or 3 times before it was over. The nurse was arranging birthing supplies very calmly. I remember Mom saying I should try to breathe through the urge to push. I remember thinking I couldn't believe I was feeling at like I should push when I couldn't be more than, what-- 7 or 8cm?

Daniel said at one point Camilla caught the nurse's eye and quietly pointed at me as if to say, "Um, there's a baby coming."

The nurse came over, watched me through a contraction, smiled warmly at me, and said very calmly, "Great. You're doing great. But if you could maybe just breathe through the next contraction, it would be good if the doctor was here."

It was all incredibly calm, I have to say. I appreciated that.

Dr. Barrett was in by the next contraction. He watched me. He never checked me. Even in that moment I thought how much he had opted for looking at my face, feeling my abdomen, and listening to me instead of reading numbers or doing exams throughout the labor. I really appreciated that.

And then I was told, "Go ahead," and I did. And in one contraction, managed superbly by the doctor who caught my eye and breathed me through just the right seconds, my baby entered the world and took his first breath.

He was crying instantly.
He was beautiful.
He was the little redheaded boy I was pulling for!
Apgars of 10 and 10.
Strong, healthy.

I held him. We cried and laughed. The doctor sat and smiled. The nurses held back and graciously gave us this moment. Nobody whisked the baby away, nobody started messing with me. It was as if time held still for a minute while I soaked it all in.

He was here!

And already!

I had gone from 6cm and baby -1 to holding him in my arms in less than 50 minutes.

Oliver's birth, part IV

This labor was different from the others in that while I did work through it mentally some by thinking of the moments ahead-- moments holding my baby, meeting this new little person who would change my life (and already had!) forever-- the thing that really kept me going was offering it all, the literal physical sorrow of it all, to the Lord as worship.

One song I had put on a playlist specifically for the labor kept running through my mind every time I thought I couldn't keep going:

This is not religion, as some would suppose.
But this is a love song, with every fiber of my being I compose.

I love my babies. I love the scent of a newborn, the discovery of infancy, the adventures of toddler years, the milestones of childhood.

But this time?

This time, more than any other, this was for Jesus.

I thought of the woman with the alabaster flask, pouring out the most valuable thing she had on Jesus' feet.

Just because she loved Him.

My body, being broken again, to bring forth a new life, for Him.

Because I love Him.

And He received it. And He carried me.

Oliver's birth, part III

In the final week or two leading up to Oliver's birth, I had to do quite a bit of spiritual warfare. Especially when the evening hours struck, the kids were in bed, Daniel was out at meetings, and the hustle and bustle of the day was over, I would just have these random thoughts pop into my head that I knew weren't from God:

"Your body's too worn out to do this again."

"I bet your scar doesn't hold up this time."

"You've driven to Watertown how many times in the past few months and you'll probably end up with a c-section anyway."

"How many more times do you think you can do this anyway?"

I've not had those thoughts before at any time during any pregnancy. It was strange that they were coming at the tail end of such a great pregnancy and after two successful VBACs.

Now, at about 10:45pm on December 16th, as I was in the throes of labor, they were flooding me. Hard. I think the mental and spiritual battle was harder than the physical one.

I got up to use the bathroom. One agonizing contraction on the way there. One while there. And then when I went to return to the bed, another one.

I couldn't even stand through it. I was on my hands and knees in the bathroom.

And I was thinking, "I'm 6cm and in this condition? I'm never gonna make it!"

I barely made it next to the hospital bed before another contraction hit. I flopped onto all fours again, desperate to get into a position that helped me stay ahead of the waves of pain. My IV popped open and blood was spurting everywhere. I was tangled in cords. I'm sure I was a sight to behold.

I remember wailing, "Camilla's never going to want to have a baby after seeing this!"

The nurse got the IV mess cleaned up. I was helped into the bed. I laid back for a bit, though I generally don't like to labor in that position. I was pretty worn out. The belts and cords and blood pressure cuff were really starting to bug me.

Dr. Barrett told me after the delivery that he would love to hear my thoughts about an induced labor versus a natural one sometime. I've thought about that since then.

I wouldn't say that pitocin necessarily hurts more, but the hard part of it seemed to be the unyielding nature of the contractions it produced. From 7pm until Oliver's birth, contractions were 2-3 minutes part without fail. No natural pauses. No peeks and no valleys. Just wave after relentless wave.

In hindsight, maybe I should have asked to be taken off the pitocin since my body had obviously taken over.

But then again, perhaps the pitocin was in part the reason I was already (and unknown to me) on the verge of meeting my new baby!

Oliver's birth, part II

Driving down was rather surreal. I wasn't in labor, but I knew I would be. Today.

It was bright and clear and very, very cold. Single digit temperatures. The freshly fallen snow from the weekend storm was breathtakingly beautiful. Everything looked pristine and sparkly.

As we neared the hospital, I told Daniel I felt like I was being led to the slaughterhouse. Which was perhaps a bit on the dramatic side, but, well, labor does feel a bit like dying, in my experience.

The next hour or two after arriving were rather anti-climactic.

"I'm here to have a baby."

It sounds like ordering a cheeseburger, but, boy, are the implications huge!

Paperwork. Getting settled. Doctor checking in to make a plan. Recommending that I get started with pitocin because he wanted to see my contractions (which I was having-- but that's nothing out of the ordinary for the last several weeks of pregnancy for me) get into a regular pattern before rupturing my membranes. I wondered if I should just skip the pitocin part (I later received a message from a nurse-friend recommending I just go ahead with the rupturing-- oops), but I appreciated his interest in not getting me on the clock too soon, so I agreed.

My mom and sister Camilla joined us, which I was so thankful for. They were ready to stick it out with me, and that was such a comfort.

From about noon until 6:30pm they kept increasing the pitocin every half an hour. The contractions were patterning and at one point started to ache a bit, but overall it just felt like bad menstrual cramps. As the day wore on, I found myself thinking I should just have them rupture my membranes so we could get things over with. I knew they weren't about to let me go home since Baby had officially reached his/her "expiration date" and I didn't relish the thought of laboring through the night.

The nurse I had was warm and friendly and was such a great sport about all the things I was declining in advance for the baby. So far, that aspect of this delivery was my best hospital experience yet.

It was relaxed in the room. I knew that what I was feeling wasn't it, and I wasn't about to get myself antsy pretending or hoping it was. Daniel played some Brian Regan and we listened to part of an online sermon. I closed my eyes. Daniel ran out and got food for himself, Mom, and Camilla; I was on a clear liquid diet from the moment I arrived, but I didn't care since I usually lose my appetite just thinking about impending labor.

A little before 7pm, the doctor came in and checked me. I hadn't made much progress (maybe 1cm more dilated than when I came in?), but I was certainly having regular contractions. I didn't have to ask; he decided to rupture my membranes and see how things might go from there.

Almost immediately, the contractions changed. Now I was in labor. Bit by bit, the contractions increased in intensity. There was no turning back now.

Of course, the downside in all of this was that I was hooked up to pitocin. That wouldn't have been so bad except that the use of pitocin in a VBAC scenario generally means continual monitoring, and the portable monitors at the hospital weren't really working according to the nurse.

Despite being chained to the monitor, I changed positions fairly frequently as things picked up. The new nurse (who had taken over at 7pm) was wonderful. She brought in a birth ball, which I sat on for a short time. I knelt on the upright hospital bed and rested my arms on the top, which seemed to be particularly effective. The rocking chair was brought over so I could sit there for a while. And thanks to the steady drip of the IV fluids, I was forced to make the increasingly difficult trek to the bathroom on a regular basis!

A couple hours after having my membranes ruptured, the contractions were really starting to take it out of me. The combination of labor progressing and the relentless nature of pitocin-induced contractions was hard.

Daniel played music for me. I sang some favorite hymns and choruses during contractions, and Mom, Camilla, and Daniel would sing where I left off when the contraction was too much for me to keep singing through. The nurse commented a few times on how much she liked the songs, and then when Dr. Barrett came in at around 10:30pm he told me I had a good voice. That was rather comical to me since I knew it couldn't possibly sound good by then, and I later told Daniel that I thought it was doctor speak for, "I'm really glad you're singing instead of screaming."

At about 10:45pm, after watching me through a few contractions, Dr. Barrett decided to check me. I could tell he was hesitant. He doesn't like to do any/many checks once the membranes have been ruptured (good for him), but ultimately decided to see where things were at.

6cm dilated, 100% effaced, baby at -1.

I was heartbroken. The contractions were really quite intense and that was it?

I should mention that heading into this labor I was as anxious about keeping it together mentally and emotionally as I've ever been. I'd had a great deal of fear and apprehension that I just wouldn't be able to do it one more time. I had prayed and I had asked for prayer, and I knew people were cheering for me, but that was the moment when those fears washed over me and the human frailty in me was convinced they were all being justified right before my eyes.

I told Daniel I needed an epidural, something I've never wanted and something I've never actually asked for before. I just didn't know how I could keep going.

Everyone reminded me, "You don't want that, Brietta. You've told us you don't want that."

"But I do!" I cried. "I can't keep doing this for hours!"

Dr. Barrett smiled warmly at me. "Labor usually goes very fast from this point."

Easy for him to say, I thought. It took me 5 hours to go from 6cm to 10cm with Elliot.

Daniel reminded me of how no two births are alike. I should know, since as slowly as things had progressed with Elliot, they had flown by with Claire, but I also didn't want to set myself up for disappointment.

All I could think was that it had been less than 4 hours of active labor and I was already feeling done in.

"Jesus, help me!"

I prayed so much. I prayed out loud perhaps more this labor than any other. The negative confessions were overtaking me and I couldn't think of any way to combat them other than praying and singing. And I knew that if I was going to make it, it wouldn't be because of any strength of my own.

Oliver's birth, part I

Here comes the obligatory birth story.

(Obligatory because I need to record it for my own memory's sake; not necessarily because anyone else is in need of it!)

Feel free to stop reading now if you don't particularly care for birth stories.

That's my disclaimer!

----------------

For those of you who were following the pregnancy, you already know that my due date was December 3rd. I had told my midwife that I always go beyond the due date, so neither of us was surprised to see one another at my 40-week appointment. Whether or not we would see each other the following week was less certain; Gabriel, Jackson, and Elliot were all born at 40 weeks, 3 days while Bronwyn and Claire were born 17 and 14 days late respectively.

/Insert rant/ I hate that we call anything before 42 weeks "late," since it was well-known and understood for centuries that an estimated due date was simply that: an estimate! It pretty much infuriates me that we're all okay with babies coming at 37, 38, or 39 weeks, but heaven forbid we give them any latitude on the other side! /End rant/

Sure enough, I saw her on December 10th. She said my numbers all looked good and sent me home without even asking me to go in for a non-stress test, but she did set up an induction for the following week, handing me the order with the words, "I'm sure we won't need it."

I was sure, too. I've never needed to be induced before, although I'd cut it awfully close. I figured we might cut it close yet again, but surely this baby would come.

Day after day passed that week and I kept praying that the baby would come, and I felt naively certain he/she would.

Sunday night as I laid in bed, with the knowledge that I was on the schedule at the hospital for the next morning-- assuming their beds didn't all fill with other women-- I prayed, "Lord, please let labor start naturally."

The next morning I woke, very much pregnant. I had a bad headache from a restless night. I called the hospital a little after 7am to see what time they wanted me. The nurse manager was busy with a report, so I was told I'd get a call back. I was still holding hope in the back of my mind that they wouldn't have room and we would have more time.

I got in the shower, just in case I needed to be ready. Daniel knocked on the door minutes later and called in, "Whenever you're ready, they want us to head down."

My stomach kind of lurched.

I stood in the shower and I cried. Real tears.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I'm a firm believer in natural birth. I don't get anxious when babies are "late," and I don't mind letting things run their course. I feared that an induction would send me down a path toward the repeat c-section that I so much wanted to avoid. Even the bad headache I was dealing with seemed to indicate doom.

I knew I could refuse to come.

I knew that would burn my bridge with a medical practice that had been very good to me.

I also knew that I was probably a ripe candidate for induction, being 42 weeks pregnant and all.

And I knew just from our conversation earlier that morning that Daniel felt a peace about the plan and he felt uncomfortable about waiting too much longer with the increasing risks of low amniotic fluid (something I tend to deal with anyway) and an aging placenta, and I knew that following his leadership in the past has always resulted in the protection, prosperity, and blessing I've needed.

I remember praying for grace and strength, two things I knew I needed and I knew I just didn't have. It probably seems presumptuous to even make the comparison, but I remember thinking about Mary. Young, first-time-mom, Mary. For the first time, I think I felt a little of what her heart may have felt as they were told there was no room in any inn for them.

This isn't the way it's supposed to be.

But God had a plan. And I felt myself strengthened in the knowledge that His plans for me are good.

I finished my shower, I sent a text to friends and sisters to let them know what was happening and to ask them to pray, and I finished packing my bags.

We left Madrid at around 9:00am.

Welcome, dear one

Introducing

Oliver Richard Paladin

"Peace; dominant ruler"

Of the increase of His government and peace,

There will be no end.

Isaiah 9:7

Born at 11:36pm on 12/16/2013

9lbs 12oz, 22 inch

Welcome to our world, our home, our hearts!

how we do history

Homeschooling is an ever-evolving find-what-fits process, isn't it? There is no perfect, one-size-fits-all curriculum. I have used and loved one curriculum one year that would be a disaster the next. I have taught one child using one method and realized with the next child it simply won't work.

The teaching of history in the little yellow house is one of those subjects that has evolved quite a bit over the years.

A good deal of the why behind its constant-morphing is that I love history and I love finding new ways to keep it fresh, both for the kids and for me. I realized about my 3rd year into homeschooling that if I had to cover early American history every year with every K or 1st grade student, I would probably go crazy.

The other reason why our study of history has changed a good deal is that I keep adding students (we're up to 4 and hurdling toward 5!) and I couldn't bear the thought of trying to do 4 different history lessons every single day.

(Let me be even more honest: I couldn't bear the thought of trying to do 2 different history lessons every single day!)
 
There's not really any way around 4 different math lessons-- although even with that I've delegated quite a bit of the hands-on-teaching by purchasing Teaching Textbooks math for my 3 oldest children and letting them operate fairly independently-- but I am a firm believer in my need to find a way to make most every other subject something we work jointly through.

A little over a year ago as I was writing out IHIPs, I simply and without much fanfare decided I wasn't going to buy a history curriculum, but that I would develop one as we went. I'm not sure why the planner in me wasn't a bit alarmed: I just knew it was what we needed to do.

The thing is, there isn't a prepackaged curriculum (at least that I've found) that allows me to teach the same basic substance to both a 10-year-old avid reader/articulate writer and a 6-year-old struggling reader who still needs to work on her fine motor skills, but I just knew that-- at least for now-- I wanted us all learning together anyway. And I believed it's possible!

Here's how I approach history:

For the past 3 semesters, my kids have been fortunate enough to be part of a collaborative literature study group with a handful of other families. We read through books together and meet once a week on Thursday afternoons for an hour or two to discuss the book(s), hand in and read aloud writing assignments, listen to music and look at geography and take note of historical events that are referenced in the book(s), etc.

This literature study has been my springboard.

Once I know the book(s) we'll be reading in literature group for the next 6-week segment, I look online for lists of books for children set in whatever time period our literature study will be taking place in. I look up significant events (that may or may not be mentioned in the book) and make timelines so that we can study each one a bit. I check pinterest and often find project inspiration, already-planned book studies, maps, coloring pages, and more. It is amazing how much easy information is available through the internet!

I request lots of books through our library loan system. Our librarian is very gracious with me and lets me borrow books for as many weeks as I would like them.

We read. We read and read and read, and listen and watch and read. I borrow a good bit of historical fiction for the older kids to read independently that will reinforce what we're studying together, I borrow children's story books about different events (like the building of the Brooklyn Bridge and Amelia Earhart's fateful flight and Teddy Roosevelt's childhood and Dorothea Lange's life and what sunk the Titanic-- do you know how many books have been written for children on how many subjects???) that we read aloud together, I borrow art and photography books that link to our time period, I borrow music and movies.

our "history" basket-- 99% of which came from the library

I assign research topics to each child each week, expecting results appropriate for their age and ability, and make sure we have plenty of grade-level-appropriate books for them to use in their study. "Gabriel, I want a report on Thomas Edison. Bronwyn, I want a report on fashion in 1912..."

We share our findings with one another. The older children read to the younger ones (even 4-year-old Claire must sit through The Gardener and Camille and the Sunflowers). I read aloud to them all. We make dioramas, we paint and sketch and color, we build models and we draw maps, we cook and bake, we watch Ken Burns' documentaries and period-appropriate movies, we cut out period-appropriate paper dolls, and we have a blast doing it all.

I love that we learn history together. I love that from Gabriel down to Claire, we can sit around the dinner table and discuss our studies together. I love that I am not trying to change gears from kid to kid, switching hats four different times every single day, because we are together.

Can I say what I also love?

Because I don't use a curriculum, I am not tempted to let the curriculum be my task-master. I tell it what we will study, what we will cover, and what we will research. Certainly, at the beginning of the school quarter when I make my timeline and request books and catalog events, I always think we'll get to more than we actually do-- there is so much to study about every time period in history!-- but there is no guilt, no condemnation, and no discouragement when we don't, because nobody but me said we should.

This approach surely won't work for everyone and in every season, but it has been an amazingly good fit for us. I'm thankful for a mom who led the way in such approaches (not every year, but increasingly often as the years went by), I'm thankful for a community around me that neither laughs at or scorns the idea that such an approach would work, I'm thankful for the Holy Spirit helping me be free and relaxed enough to do what my children need me to do, and I'm thankful for the opportunity to discover and explore and learn from generations past with my children!

early morning

It is just Elliot and I this morning by the light of the Christmas tree, he with his banana and juice and me with my cup of tea (I have officially not been a coffee drinker for almost 3 months now, and know not when my stomach will-- ever?-- again agree to it). Daniel is at a meeting and the other children are still asleep.

My boy snuggles in close. He points to things and says words I still don't understand. I know what he means, though, because the intonation and expression in his voice does the trick. He loves the tree. He loves the candles. He loves his banana. He loves my belly.

Mornings are happy times for Elliot. He is generally excited about life at this time of day.

Although mornings are not historically happy times for me, I have learned to find pleasure in the quiet, the peace, the ticking of the clocks that are usually missed the rest of the day when my family fills this space so fully that there is no room for such observances.

Mornings in December have never been hard for me to enjoy, though.

I actually love them.

Perhaps we should have a beautifully lit and decorated tree in our home year-round.

decking the halls

This past weekend we set about decking the halls of the little yellow house. While it's true that I usually aim to decorate for Christmas throughout the weekend following Thanksgiving, I may have set a new record even for myself this year: the house was garbed by Friday evening, the tree was gotten Saturday morning, and the first batch of cookies were baked Sunday afternoon.

Some call it nesting. I myself tend to think it's just the crazy behaviors of a woman who knows not how much time she has left to tie up loose ends before hunkering down with a new baby.

Getting the tree is always a highlight of the Christmas season for me. I'm sure many people just look it as a lot of work; I think it's tremendous fun.

Most years we have a baby/toddler who sleeps in the vehicle through the entire outing. This was Elliot's turn. The rest of us had a blast tromping through the snow, choosing [quickly, due to the frigid temperatures!] which tree would be ours, bringing it home.

Upon arrival home, we turn and adjust the tree to choose just the right side, we carefully string lights and unfurl handmade-by-Bronwyn crocheted garland, and then we lavishly arrange ornaments.

And what first day of advent would be complete around here without fresh Christmas cookies, brown paper packages tied up with string, and new pajamas (or nightgowns, in the case of three very pleased little girls)?

(And a crying baby in the group photo.
Just keepin' it real, folks.)

It really might be the most wonderful time of the year!